


In Which There Is A Pale Sartorial Intervention And Ensuing Mall Shenanigans

by Capitola



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas shopping hell, Gen, Get everyone together for Christmas, Post-Game Earth, because that's a good idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capitola/pseuds/Capitola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya needs to get out of the house, and besides, Karkat is out of his mind if he thinks he's wearing THAT to her party. What could go wrong with a trip to the mall two days before Christmas?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which There Is A Pale Sartorial Intervention And Ensuing Mall Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bench/gifts).



Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you’re beginning to come to terms with the fact that you have what Rose calls a “love-hate relationship” with Human Christmas. On the one hand, there  _ is _ the opportunity for nice parties, all the pretty decorations, getting a bunch of all your friends under one roof again. Of course, the parties are full of horrendous Christmas sweaters, more often than not the decorations are crimes against the sighted world, and having your friends (and, in Rose’s case, relations) under one roof is enough to make any recovering ashen village two-wheeled device have a relapse. 

 

You feel the same way about malls. Much as you’d once very much liked the  _ idea _ of a mall, you find that in person they’re a little overwhelming, and always rather disappointing. Not the least because, although they purport themselves to be centers of fashion, they tend to be more centers of “adolescents of varying species trying out terrible clothing choices in an effort to disappoint their progenitors.” It’s a bit difficult on the eyes.

 

Besides, all your friends hate shopping, and you make all your own clothes and several others’ besides, so there’s never much reason for you to go - except in emergencies like these. 

 

This emergency, as it happens, is five feet seven inches tall, named Karkat Vantas, and only packed sweatpants and sweatshirts for visiting you.  _ Again, _ honestly. One year, you could understand, packing mistakes do happen and all, but this is the fifth Christmas in a row that he has tried to pull that look off, and it’s not as though you’re still six sweeps old. He might actually try to put a little effort into his wardrobe, especially for the party. 

 

The party in question is an annual Christmas get-together, which started out as a “Good Gracious We All Survived A Game Together We Might As Well Celebrate It Once A Year,” and has now become a rather involved event, as some of you begin to gain a bit of wealth and notoriety. Trolls and humans seem to exist in some sort of harmony you still don’t fully understand on this new world, and all of you have settled into society with more or less ease. Clothing choices aside. 

 

Well, you suppose this is what moirails are for. You broached the subject with him at breakfast this morning, as he stumbled to the table with a cup of coffee clenched in both hands. He did a superb spit-take, (which he claims was because John added crushed candy canes to the coffee this morning, rather than surprise at your suggestion) and grumbled out something about having other things to do today than wiggle in and out of a selection of new outfits like a rapidly pupating grub. 

 

“You do  _ not _ ,” you tell him, as he very well knows. “The “Kringlefucker” has been decorated to within an inch of its life, the roof will cave in if we add any more lights or ironic Santas to it, and don’t try to tell me you’re going to help in the kitchen.” The kitchen was a danger zone to all not in the very best graces of Miss Jane Crocker (currently extended to her partners, immediate relatives, and Terezi, who could smell the exact moment a dish started to  _ think _ about burning), and Karkat had not been in those since he very nearly squished her log cake last Christmas. “Karkat, I assure that it is not going to kill you to something that isn’t just neutral and comfortable.”

 

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no other conceivable reason why I would want to wear anything.” He went back to sipping his coffee, under the mistaken impression that the conversation was finished. 

 

“You packed  _ gym wear _ for the Christmas party, Karkat.  _ Again _ .” You had let it slide in the past, but not this year. Not in your house. Not  _ your _ Christmas party. 

 

And so now you’re standing in the menswear section of a Department Store, examining a rack of somewhat acceptable shirts in shades ranging from garish red and green to the more respectable charcoal and black. Three guesses as to which end of the rack you’re looking at, and the first two, as Dave says, do not count. 

 

“These are nice,” you start off diplomatically.   
  


“Really? They look unpleasant and tight to me.” He’s putting up a fuss for effect, because he’s  _ Karkat _ , and effect is important to him, much as he denies it, but you can tell he’s about ready to just give in and let himself be “trussed up like a human wiggler’s garish barbie doll.” 

 

And just as you think that,, he rolls his eyes and joins your search in earnest, shoving them to the side and examining each one individually “Any commands as to what I wear here? Any preferences?” Rose has observed to you that friends develop patterns of talking to each other early on and stick to them for a while - in the case of you and Karkat, it seems to be a constant back-and-forth of metaphors, eccentric turns of phrase, and drawn-out irrationalities declared in varying tones of dramatics by one and promptly shot down by the other. He’s being the dramatic one today.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of commanding you to do anything,” you say, playing up the reason in your voice,”but I’d prefer you wore something that you - well, that  _ I _ will not mind you being photographed in. Here. Try this one.” You hold up one in a dark grey. It’s got a bit of embroidery around the collar and by the sleeves, which you find questionable but not entirely objectionable,  though his reaction is a bit stronger. 

 

“I would not wear that shirt if we were the last two beings on this godforsaken planet and the future of intelligent life depended on me wearing it and producing troll-shirt mutant offspring with it. I would end it right then and there, leaving this place as the bleak and unforgiving wasteland nature intended it to be. That is how awful that shirt is, Kanaya.” He puts it back on the rack. It’s going to be a long day. 

 

You finally arrive at three suitable shirt candidates, though you don’t like the trousers in this store all that much - they seem to think all men are a bit taller and thinner than Karkat. You don’t understand why humans are so insistent about dresses and skirts being women’s clothing, but all the men’s attire is just variations on shirts and pants. Awfully unimaginative of them, you think. The changing-room attendant pops her gum as she hands you a number, and you would hazard a guess as to her nonchalance being due to some sort of soporifics, rather than just the usual teenage boredom. 

 

The first shirt’s a bit too tight around his chest, and he doesn’t even bother doing up the top three buttons. The second  _ he _ likes a little better, but it’s definitely on the side of too loose. 

 

“Look at this,” you say, bunching up the loose fabric in your hand to show how much of it there is. “It hangs off of you like an old trunkbeast skin.” You  _ could _ alter it, given enough time, but you definitely don’t have that, not with the party tomorrow and the sheer amount of guests in your house. For all you know, someone might have hung a hammock on your sewing machine, you haven’t had a minute of free time for it in three days. 

 

The third shirt, like the proverbial third bowl of cholerbear’s porridge, fits just right, and you breathe out a sigh of relief looking at it in the mirror. He frowns at it a bit, but then turns up the corners of his mouth in what isn’t quite a smile, but it is definitely satisfaction. One item down. 

 

In the next section, you’re looking at pants when Karkat spots a woman slipping a few scarves into a large designer handbag, and dive-bombs across a turtleneck display to point her out to the nearby shop attendant. The attendant looks equal parts grateful that you caught the woman and upset about some amount of extra work the incident will create for her. 

 

You aren’t as lucky with the trousers as you were with the shirt, and have to fight about three monsters and two denizens for the right to them, but at long last, you do find a pair of black slacks which _ match _ the shirt without looking like a uniform of some kind, and even a pair of shoes, which, lo and behold, are both  _ comfortable _ and  _ not sneakers. _

 

“Well,” he finally relents, “at least they don’t feel like something’s eating my feet.” 

 

The final quest of the department store is known as the Checkout Line, and it proves a formidable beast indeed. There is a crying child in line with its mother ahead of you, and you begin to wonder whether it would be possible for your hearing to go out before its lungs did. Mercifully, the line does end at some point, and you get out with an agreeable, fashionable outfit that fits Karkat (nigh-inexplicable) and a ravenous appetite (quite expected, as you were in there nearly four hours). Blood  _ would _ be preferable, but normal food makes for an acceptable substitute - enough to sustain you for the drive home, at least.    
  
“Food court?” You say, less of a question and more of a confirmation. 

  
“Food court.”

 

The food court, like the rest of the mall, has far too many people and far too many smells. You push your way through a few lines and come out with some hot teas and pretzels with a variety of toppings. No grub sauce, but they do have some pretty good Dijon. 

 

After a run-in with a particularly aggressive garland outside the pretzel counter, Karkat starts off on another of his rants about the inanity of Christmas traditions, finishing with the utter crowning ridiculousness that is the tree. “...and to top it all, they pitch it to the curb bereft of all its finery, like a particularly arboreus and spiky Cinderella, the very week after they’ve finished celebrating all around it.” 

 

“I agree, it makes no sense at all. I suppose it was too much to ask for us to create a universe that makes any kind of sense with its traditions.”

 

He sighs. “I guess ours didn’t make much more sense, did they?”   
  
You consider your childhood Secret Sufferer exchanges and shake your head. “No, I suppose not.” The two of you finish the rest of your snacks in comfortable silence. 

 

It’s still cold when you finally walk out to the car, and though the sun is terribly low, it’s not yet dark. The car is  _ not _ the minivan Rose is always teasing you about having to buy one of these days, but a nice, no-nonsense little compact that she calls Zazzerpan. Well-suited for mall trips. 

 

As you get situated in the car, fastening your seat belts, he turns to you and says “I still think there must have been  _ some _ other things around the house we could have done today.” 

 

“Well,” you respond cheerfully, “I suppose we still haven’t put tinsel on  _ everyone’s _ horns, or piled up enough wood to keep the Real Human Fireplace going for a month straight, or even attempted to create a more suitable garment for the tree.” You have been dropping hints about how much you hate the red felt monstrosity encrusted in sequins that is the Lalonde Christmas tree skirt since you decorated the tree the first week of December. The Lalondes insist it is a “treasured family heirloom” and “worth all the martinis in Manhattan” and “not to be parted with or removed from its sacred place ‘neath our beloved tree  _ ever _ .” 

 

In a relationship, you are to compromise on some topics and with others you are to admit that the other person’s position  is completely incomprehensible to you and throw up your hands. A fair amount of Human Christmas Traditions fall under this category. 

 

He continues as you start the car. “You know what I mean. Dave might’ve tried to use Vriska’s horns as a can-opener again - ”

 

“He promised he would stop that - ”

 

“He had his fingers crossed behind his back when he said it.” 

 

You brace yourself on the steering wheel as you pull out into the slush-filled parking lot. “Then he will get what is coming to him.” After today, and with all the thoughts of whatever is to come in the next few days, whatever fate Dave Strider may or may not have earned for himself while you were away is rather low on your list of priorities.    
  
He shakes his head sadly and rolls his eyes. “She’ll gut him alive.” He looks as though he’s already composing Dave’s eulogy in his head. 

 

“Vriska shall do no such thing. I made  _ her _ promise no murder during Christmas festivities - while I was holding her wrists in front of her, no less.” 

  
The house is so covered in Christmas lights that you can see it before you even get off the highway, and Karkat does not even pretend to be shocked, just shakes his head and quietly thumps his head on the dashboard. It’s always good to have friends at this time of year. 


End file.
